


chin up, cheer up

by 26miledrive



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-11
Updated: 2011-10-11
Packaged: 2017-10-24 12:41:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,533
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/263573
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/26miledrive/pseuds/26miledrive
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Immediately following game one of the stanley cup finals, Andrew Ference gets a surprise visit from his maybe-more-than-just-friends-with-benefits Mike Green.</p>
            </blockquote>





	chin up, cheer up

**chin up, cheer up**

Andrew answers the door wearing a pair of pajama pants, a Bruins t-shirt, and a fierce, angry scowl. In about an hour, the man waiting in the hallway will be responsible for making him lose all three of those things, but for now--yeah, he’s too pissed off and disappointed to even be _surprised_.

“Hi,” Mike says, holding up a bag. “I brought you some dinner. Wow, Ference. Your beard makes you look scary. Like you’re going to ax-murder me in my sleep. Can I come in?”

Andrew doesn’t move, because he doesn’t fucking feel like it. He has no idea why Mike decided to show up in Vancouver, and logically he knows Mike must have planned to show up _before_ the Bruins’ loss to the Canucks a few hours earlier...but logic sucks and Andrew is not in the mood. So instead of saying something nice like _what the hell are you doing here, Green?_ , he gives Mike an appraising look and growls,“Why are you wearing your hat like that?”

Mike peers at him from under the brim of his hat, which he’s wearing pulled low on his brow. “I don’t think this is one of those questions that has a right answer.”

“Is it so you don’t get mobbed by adoring fans if they recognize you?” He’s being a _dick_ , but if Mike didn’t expect that then he’s been sleeping with a different guy for the last however-long-it’s-been.

“What? Dude, I’m not Ovechkin. Although I guess he doesn’t really _hide_ from adoring fans so much as _seek them out_ , huh.” Mike gives the hat a sharp tug. “It’s so I don’t get another concussion. There are a lot of hockey players around in this city who aren’t on my team, and we all know it’s dangerous being me when that happens...look, can I come in, or are you sulking in private? It’s cool, I’ve got my own room. Just let me know.”

Andrew is _not_ smiling at that concussion joke, he’s _not_.

“You totally just smiled there, I saw it before it was eaten by your beard.” Mike holds up the bag, wags it enticingly. “They have this great vegetarian restaurant a few blocks away. I picked up this thing for you. You’ll like it. It’s got avacado and locally-grown organic cheese on it.”

“You don’t _grow_ cheese, Green.”

“You know what I _mean_ , Ference.”

“Rarely.” Andrew steps back, gives a rough jerk of his head to indicate he should come in. Mike throws the paper bag at him and does so, bringing a suitcase with him that Andrew hadn’t noticed before. “I thought you said you had your own room?”

“Nah, I just said that so I didn’t look pathetic if you kicked me out.” Mike tosses his bag on the bed, pulls his hat off. “Tough loss. I can’t believe Chara won a face-off.”

“I don’t want to talk about it.” Andrew opens the bag, which is a nondescript, generic paper bag with the green recycle symbol on it. Inside there are three brightly wrapped items from Taco Bell. “Locally grown organic cheese, eh?”

“It’s cheddar, I think. And there’s guacamole on one of those tacos, that’s like avocado.” Mike sits on the bed and kicks his shoes off. “I even paid extra for that. I know, I know. I’m a prince.”

Andrew leans back against the desk and looks at Mike. He’s clean-shaven, looks well-rested, even relaxed. Andrew is none of these things, and suddenly he feels very resentful of Mike. Even though Mike would probably trade places with Andrew in a heartbeat, aches and bruises and tough losses and all, if it meant he’d still be playing hockey.

“What are you doing here?”

Mike shrugs, like it’s not a big deal. Like this is a thing they do, now. Surprise visits. “Thought you might like some company, that’s all. If you don’t want those tacos, can I have one...?”

Andrew throws the bag at him. “Not hungry, eat your heart out...but I meant, what are you doing in _Vancouver_?”

Mike pauses in the midst of unwrapping a taco--Andrew is so wound up that the noise is driving him fucking crazy--and _looks_ at him. “Why do you think I’m here, Ference? I came to see you play some hockey. Maybe get laid. Duh.”

“Sorry, I just forgot the part where I invited you.” Andrew feels like a hornet, short-tempered and mean; all his words are a warning to _stay away before I sting you_.

Mike pauses with a taco raised halfway to his mouth. “They pretty much let you come and go as you please, you know, if you’re a Canadian citizen.” Mike wraps the taco back up again (seriously, the crinkling is going to make Andrew wring his fucking neck) and shoves it in the bag, stands up--

\--and then walks over to the mini-fridge and puts it away. “You might want this later,” he explains, straightening. “Okay. I know what you need.” He walks closer, his _I’m on the ice and I’m going to get a Gordie Howe Hat Trick so GTFO, motherfucker,_ look replacing the _I care about the environment and bring my own paper bag to Taco Bell, all way from Calgary_ one.

“Oh, you do?” Andrew takes a step closer--his _GTFO, motherfucker_ look hasn’t gone anywhere since Raffi Fucking Torres scored that goddamn goal--and tilts his chin up, glaring at Mike, who has a good three inches on him. Andrew has spent a long time being shorter than a lot of his teammates and opponents in the NHL, and he long ago learned not to be intimidated by height differences. Being on a team with Zdeno Chara was helpful for that.

“Yeah. I thought it was tacos, but...well, maybe later.” Mike smiles. “Sucks to lose a one goal game, huh. Now you know how Florida felt.”

If Andrew is the angry hornet, Mike is the idiot trying to spray him with bleach. Or hit him with a rolled-up newspaper. Whatever people do to piss off hornets, Andrew doesn’t fucking know, but this works well enough. “That one goal game sent the Bolts to the golf course. We can even up the series on Saturday, and we’re back to square one. And I said I didn’t want to talk about it.”

Mike moves up closer to him, reaches out and grabs his t-shirt, yanking him in close. “I don’t want to talk, either.”

“Then why do you keep running your mouth?”

“Because you’re cute when you’re angry?”

Andrew shoves him away, hard enough to send Mike stumbling back a bit. “I am fucking tired, we fucking _lost_ , the media’s written us off already--”

“--oh, they did that before you got here.”

Andrew doesn’t so much ignore that as he does save it for later, letting it rile him up even more, all that restless anger and discontent focusing on Mike. “--Burrows _bit Bergeron_ , who even _does_ that?”

“Uh, you do know who Alex Burrows _is_ , right? Because I’m just not sure why anyone’s surprised about that. It’s like someone saying they’re surprised Chara’s really tall. Or, that Ovechkin’s an attention whore. Or that Brooks is pretty, or that Jonathan Toews is serious, or that--”

“Thank you, I get your point, Mr. Metaphor.”

“Are those metaphors? I don’t think they are, Ference, I think they’re more like...um, statements that are obvious so...whatever you call those, look, do you want to hit me or something? I don’t have to play hockey for a few weeks, so you know, it should be fine.”

Andrew stares at him, suddenly at a loss, because--he _doesn’t_ want to hit Mike. Well, no, he kind of does because Mike’s being annoying, but the more he thinks about doing it, it just makes him tired. “No.”

If Mike’s surprised by that, he doesn’t let it show. He just nods, like that’s what he expected, and takes his hat off, tossing it over in the general direction of the bed. “Okay. Take your shirt off and lay down.”

That’s the first thing that’s made Andrew laugh since the puck dropped earlier that night in Rogers Arena. “Right.”

“No, I’m serious.” Mike pushes him with a couple of short, sharp shoves against his shoulders. “Bed.”

“What the fuck are you doing?” Andrew is breathing harder, angry at--everybody, the world, hockey, Mike Green, you name it--but he’s not resisting, he’s not fighting _back_ , and this isn’t really how this works with them so he also probably looks confused.

“Helping you relax. Really, could you just...look, you’ve played nineteen games of playoff hockey, Ference. And you’ve got however many more left to go. You should probably keep that Frisky Ference Fierceness for the ice. So probably beating me up isn’t a good idea.”

That makes sense, actually, which means Andrew is going to argue out of spite. “Scared, Green?”

Mike rolls his eyes. “Uh, no. Dude, I’m not quite at the same thug level as your average Bruin, but give me some credit, here--I’m not Sidney Crosby, either.” Mike peers at him. “Not even a smile, still the angry-face, okay--wow, usually Crosby jokes make you laugh. Really, you’ve got nothing?”

“What I’ve _got_ ,” Andrew starts hotly, but Mike reaches out and...slaps his hand over Andrew’s mouth, so the rest of his words are muffled and lost.

“Andrew?” Mike smiles, drops his hand, and then pulls Andrew down to kiss him. “Shut up and take your shirt off, and _lay down_. I’ve got this.”

And Andrew, for no reason that he wants to spend time thinking about, does.

* * *  
“Your plans are bad.” Andrew puts his hands behind his head and gives a ridiculously exaggerated yawn. “Also, boring.”

Mike is straddling his hips, but that’s _all_ he’s doing, nothing else, nothing that will make Andrew forget the game or take care of his restlessness. “How can you be bored already? You’re really not very patient, Ference.”

“ _No._ I’m not? Well, fuck.” Andrew reaches up and shoves half-heartedly at Mike’s shoulder. “Could you at least suck my cock or something?”

“From up here? Not unless you’re John Holmes. And I’ve got no complaints about your cock, okay, but you’re definitely not that endowed.”

“This is your plan to make me feel better? Sit on top of me and insult the size of my dick? Yeah, this was such a good idea. You’ve _got this_ , totally.” Andrew shoves him again. “What are you waiting for? Saturday? Next year’s playoffs? Put out or get off me, Green. You promised me sex, not porn jokes and boredom.”

“I did not promise you sex. Not once did I say anything about you getting laid.”

“This is the worst surprise visit ever. I bet Carey Price isn’t sitting on top of Krejci and taunting the fuck out of him,” Andrew grouses, kicking his heel against the mattress in frustration. Now he’s fucking annoyed _and_ his dick is getting hard, and he’s going to beat Mike with those fucking tacos if something doesn’t happen here, soon.

“You don’t think so?” Mike laughs. “I’m pretty sure that’s Price’s only setting, _taunting_ \--well, maybe not, there’s also _looking woeful_ , I bet. He’s good at that, I’ve seen pictures.”

Andrew gives a small, evil smile. “Don’t forget, he’s a Hab--he’s also good at _choking_.”

Mike looks down at him, straight-faced. “Yeah? No wonder Krejci likes him.”

That makes Andrew--not _laugh_ , exactly, but the noise he makes is closer to that than a growl or like he’s being strangled. “Funny.”

“Thanks.” Mike cocks his head, then reaches down and pats the side of his face. “Don’t worry. You’re going to get laid.”

“Good, because I--”

Andrew doesn’t get to say anything else, because Mike lifts his hand and smacks him, hard, right across the side of his face. “But I’m not going to fuck you if you’re thinking about hockey. Wait--that’s not what I meant. I’m not going to fuck you if you’re _moping_ about hockey. I could go borrow Price if I wanted to do that.” Mike winces. “I just made that joke, didn’t I? Fucking a Bruin, does that give me instant Hab-hate or something?”

 _“Yeah, it’s contagious, but--hey, which Bruin are you fucking? It can’t be me, I’m not getting any.”_

 _Mike is really good at looking totally serious and saying things that are ridiculous, as evidenced by his next comment. “You’re right. I’m cheating on you with Kaberle.”_

 _Andrew meets his eyes and says calmly, “Oh, I thought you said you were fucking a _Bruin_ ,” and when Mike throws his head back and laughs, Andrew maybe feels a little better. _

Right up until Mike smacks him again, harder this time, enough that Andrew hisses and turns his head from the force of it. “What, are you defending his honor?”

“No, dumbass. Everyone knows Bruins don’t _have_ any. I’m making you feel better.”

 _Andrew blinks at him. “You’re going to have to explain that.”_

 _“No, I’m not,” Mike responds cheerfully. His face is flushed, and there’s a bright light in his eyes, and wait, _wait_ , Andrew knows this look, Andrew _has_ this look, a lot, actually--because usually _he’s_ the one doing this, roughing Mike up, that’s what Mike likes about him and Andrew certainly has no complaints. _

“Yeah, you are,” Andrew says, and wow, that’s making him angry again, because what the _fuck_. He’s failing at this, too? The one thing he’s good at that isn’t hockey and bullying people into environmental awareness is _rough sex with Mike Green_ , and is this some kind of statement that Mike isn’t into it anymore? Because that would suck. “Did I lose points for that game? Or was I supposed to not take my shirt off and fight you or something...what happened to Fiesty Ference’s Fierceness or whatever?”

“Nothing, as far as I can tell.” Mike leans down and presses his mouth to Andrew’s and kisses him, one hand resting on the side of his face, fingers gentle against reddened skin. “I’m trying to make you feel better, okay?”

“By making comments about my teammates and implying you’re fucking Kaberle? After being a cocktease. You should patent this, wow.”

Mike’s mouth moves to his neck and up to his ear. “That’s okay, get angry if you want. I’m going to smack it out of you.. And then you’ll feel better and you won’t be so tense, because you are _really_ tense, and then I’ll watch that show with you that you won’t admit to anyone you like on HGTV.”

“Shhh,” Andrew says quickly, looking around, as if there are cameras and this going to be in an episode of _BruinsTV_. An episode that would somehow be more shocking than the Capitals defensemen straddling his lap.“That’s not--I was just joking about that.”

“Ference, you TiVo’d the entire season last time you were at my house.”

“That was Laich.”

“Oh right! I forgot how much he likes _Red Hot and Green_.” Mike snickers. “Can I make the obvious joke about me, here...?”

“I get a choice if you do or not? Then definitely, no.” Andrew is getting restless again, and it’s not just the energy from the game; chirping at Mike is how this whole thing started (well, that and an opportunely empty locker room in the Garden), and just like that night, he wants Mike to do more with his mouth than run it.

Mike has other ideas, apparently, because he smacks Andrew again. This time it gets a short moan out of him. “Would you stop fucking around?”

“Sure.” Mike’s face goes serious. “I’m trying to make you mad, anyway, not...” -- he moves his hips, which makes Andrew inhale sharply and reach out to grab the belt-loops on Mike’s jeans -- “...horny.”

“That’s a sucky play, Coach Green.” Andrew tries to drag Mike against him, harder this time, but Mike shakes his head and pulls at Andrew’s wrist. That only works because Mike generally doesn’t pull Andrew’s hand _away_ from his pants, and Andrew’s surprised enough to let him do it. “Why do you want me mad? I’m already in a shitty mood, can’t you fucking tell? If you want it rough, just ask. I’ll fuck you over there against the wall, or you can do a back bend off the bed, whatever, fuck, you don’t have to work this hard for it.”

“Ah, there’s the Ference I know and mysteriously lust after.”

“You want me to put you on your back and clear up the _mysterious_ part of that?” Andrew glowers, leaning up on his elbows. “Because I can do that.”

“I know.” Mike leans down and mouths over his tattoos; first the dragon on his right shoulder, then the Bruins logo. “Maybe tomorrow night. And by _maybe_ I mean, _definitely_.”

“ _Ow_ , Green, what the _fuck_.” Andrew hisses in pain when Mike _bites_ him, right in the middle of the damn _B_ , leaving a red mark and looking really pleased with himself.

“Ference?”

“Yeah, what?” Andrew pants, twisting, trying to knock Mike off his lap.

“Shut up.” Mike reaches up and clamps his hand over Andrew’s mouth, then leans down and starts biting him again. “Or I’ll start telling you reasons why a majority of people feel like buying local and organic produce is a scam, classist yuppie bullshit, or both.”

“That’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard in my life,” Andrew protests, but it sounds more like phat zmsmos dicls phg vhrd inlyph.

Mike doesn’t miss a beat, though--he moves down, keeps biting, harder and harder. It makes Andrew hiss and arch his hips up, no longer trying to knock Mike off of him. “I know, right? But I’m just telling you what they were saying on Fox News.”

Andrew lets out a string of incensed noises at that, and Mike raises his head from Andrew’s stomach to grin at him. “I was only watching Fox News because it was on in the bar at the airport. Now will you shut up? The end of this biting thing is a blowjob. For you. From me.”

“Mph. Wsh ws emwtsn.”

“Emma Watson is too young for you, pervert.”

Andrew’s okay with laughing, because maybe Mike won’t realize that’s what that noise is. And he bites Andrew’s lower stomach right when Andrew makes it, so maybe it isn’t a laugh after all.

* * *  
By the time Mike is finished with him, Andrew’s chest, stomach, and back are bitten up, and the side of his face hurts because apparently Mike Green has a smacking fetish, fuck, but Andrew could care less. He’s sprawled naked on the bed, still catching his breath from the--very good, and definitely worth the wait --blowjob he just got.

He offered to return the favor--gesturing vaguely and halfway opening his mouth was totally offering--but Mike elected to get himself off so Andrew could watch, which was always nice, even though he jokingly (Andrew hoped) started talking about sustainable living trends at one point. In the end, Andrew had smacked _his_ hand over _Mike’s_ mouth, told him to shut up, then said dirty things that had nothing to do with the environment until he bit Andrew’s hand and came with a trapped moan.

Now, they’re eating tacos. And Mike isn’t saying a word about the game, or about the finals, or about anything that matters at all. Actually, Andrew isn’t sure what the fuck he’s talking about, but it doesn’t really matter.

Andrew leans over and kisses him, puts a hand on the side of Mike’s face to hold him there until he’s done. It’s a slow, heated kiss and it last a long time--when he pulls back, Mike’s eyes are wide and curious, but his gaze is steady, and he doesn’t look away. Andrew smiles at him. He feels better, less like an angry hornet and more like a...sleepy one. If hornets actually sleep, Andrew has no idea. He’ll have to ask Krejci, apparently he watches a lot of nature documentaries.

“Thanks,” he says, gruffly, dropping his hand. He waits a heartbeat, then adds dryly, “...for not calling first.”

Mike laughs, bright and warm, and shoulder-checks him. “Asshole. I’m going to sell my ticket to the game tomorrow--and holy fuck, you couldn’t have been playing like, the _Islanders_ or something? Jesus, that set me back like half my contract fee for next year.”

“The _Islanders_.” Andrew shakes his head, then reaches and grabs the remote. “I could have gotten you a ticket.”

“Really? Can you still get one? Seriously, I can sell mine and buy a new watch or something. Edged in emeralds. Dipped in platinum.” Mike gathers up the paper bag and the taco wrappers and throws them away, and then comes back and sits next to Andrew again. “We can watch _Red, Hot and Green_ if you want. If you haven’t had enough red hot Green action for one night.”

“If you hadn’t blown me so good, I would hit you for that.”

“Save it for the ice, Ference,” Mike says, then rests head on his shoulder and yawns.


End file.
